


Can You Hear Your Heart

by ladyhoneydarlinglove



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: DOTO spoilers, M/M, Post DotO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 10:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12363504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyhoneydarlinglove/pseuds/ladyhoneydarlinglove
Summary: He wakes from a nightmare, and must convince himself he is alive.





	Can You Hear Your Heart

He opens his eyes, and darkness consumes them.

A gasp catches in his throat as his vision goes black, lungs filling rapidly with something wet and viscous and horribly cold. Rough hands grab at his limbs and he tries to wrench them away, but his body is sluggish and weak with black tar bleeding from his heart. He opens his mouth, tries to scream but a knife slides over his throat. He chokes on blood instead; it flows down deep into his lungs, and he is drowning, drowning, _drowning_ —

He wakes in a panic, the scream still caught in his throat. He chokes on it as he inhales, heart stuttering and lungs aching, fear sinking down to the very hollows of his bones. His limbs are heavy and his joints ache faintly and he knows, _he knows_ , that he should be alive and human and well. But the Void bleeds black from his dreams, and he doubts. Oh, he doubts, unmoored and lost at sea.

“Breathe,” he hisses to himself. “Breathe, _breathe_ , you know—you know—”

He needs to convince himself of reality; that he has not just concocted some elaborate dream in the heart of the Void, a futile effort at easing his loneliness, and his suffering. He digs deep into the corners of his screaming mind to remember that which will ground him, which will prove to him that he is no longer the Outsider, that he is alive.

_One_.

He’s breathing; great gasping lungfuls of air, shuddering their way down his windpipe. His chest heaves with the effort of it, diaphragm twisted tightly as it forces air into his lungs. The ferocity of his breaths nearly burns, and the sensation reminds him just how much he can feel now.

_Two_.

His heart beats a frantic staccato inside his chest. He presses one hand to it and one to his throat, touches his heartbeat and his breath. They push and pull at him like ocean tides, tandem reminders of the corporal body that now holds him.

_Three_.

He draws his bottom lip between his teeth and bites, bites until he bleeds. The coppery taste fills his mouth, and some of the fear scurries away. He couldn’t taste, in the Void. And if he bled, he bled darkness.

_Four_.

He opens his eyes. He sits in a chair at a desk, back and neck stiff from when he fell asleep. A lamp buzzes faintly with electricity, illuminating its surroundings with soft gold light. He removes the hand wrapped around his throat ( _he can’t let go of his heart, not yet_ ) and runs his fingers along the pages of a book left open in front of him, the paper smooth against his fingers. An audiograph sits on a small table somewhere to his rest, and with a great effort, he stands, so he can make it play.

Music fills the room, soft and airy. The knot inside his chest loosens, and he heaves a sigh. Music could never play in the Void, drowned out by its siren black song. The mortal world sings with many strange and wonderful sounds, but none has become quite so dear to him as the flow of notes over an instrument, creating seas of symphonies in which he would gladly drown. Music is at once earthly and ethereal, and the gentle notes of the concerto soothe and comfort, a balm over cracked and bleeding nerves. His heart slows to its normal drumbeat, and he is calm enough now to take stock of the rest of his surroundings.

His office, granted along with the title Royal Archivist, resides in the place where the Overseer Chapel used to be, abandoned now that the Abbey refuses to reside in a place where black magic took hold. They never managed to get rid of Delilah’s tree, but he’s hung the branches with string lights and baubles, colored glass ornaments and ribbons of fabric that flutter pleasantly whenever someone opens the door. The trunk has been fitted with shelves to hold his myriad of devices and assorted knick-knacks, and helps support a sturdy ladder that leads to the second floor, where books line every wall. A few months prior saw the installment of windows there as well, and now when he looks up, pale moonlight paints the very top branches of the tree.

But despite the music and the familiarity of a space to call his own, he is still alone. He can never truly be at ease until he’s sure there are others, that he lives and breathes on the human plane of existence. To that end, he makes him way up the ladder, and steps out onto the top floor. His feet move without his thinking, leading him to the only other room in Dunwall Tower he knows as well as his own.

Corvo never locks his door, thinking it too much of an impediment should he need to spring out of bed and to Emily’s side. But years of diligent training and (not unjustified) mild paranoia mean Corvo wakes at the slightest unfamiliar noise, and he cannot enter without warning. Instead, he raps his knuckles sharply against the wood three times, and waits. A few moments pass, and then from somewhere inside the room, three solid knocks answer. A little sigh escapes him as he opens the door and steps inside.

“Did you fall asleep in your office again?” Corvo grumbles from his bed, already slipped back beneath the covers, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed in irritation. A great rushing fondness fills his chest until he thinks he might drown with it, and he wonders if the sight of Corvo will ever cease to be overwhelming.

“I’m trying to be better about it,” he insists, toeing off his boots.

Corvo snorts. “Liar. This is the third time this week it’s happened. And you forgot to come down to dinner. Again.”

His face floods with warmth, cheeks tinged pink. “I did eat,” he says. “Someone brought me something later.”

“Because I told them to.” Corvo sighs. “What are you going to do when Emily and I go to Morley next month and you have to remember by yourself that humans need food?”

“I keep snacks in my office.” He shucks his jacket, lays it over a chair by the fireplace before walking over to the bed. “I won’t starve.”

“I won’t believe that until I come back and you’re not dead.”

He huffs loudly as he sits down. “You have so little faith in me.” He reaches for Corvo’s left hand.

“Because you’re kind of terrible at this.” Corvo’s fingers slid between his own, and he sighs a little at the rough calluses on his fingertips and palm, the smooth knicks of scar tissue, the slightly crooked knob of his thumb as it strokes the back of his hand. He lifts their hands to his mouth, placing a soft kiss where his Mark used to be. Warm skin meets his lips, and the last tendrils of doubt and fear flee like rats in the night.

Corvo could never be this warm, this real, this _alive_ , in the Void.

He lingers over Corvo’s hand long enough that Corvo opens his eyes, peering at him curiously. “Nightmare?” he asks, and he doesn’t bother to ask how Corvo can tell.

“Yes,” he answers, and Corvo squeezes his hand. He offers nothing more, and Corvo doesn’t press, only tugs at their twined hands until he joins him under the covers. He presses close, breathes in deeply, catching the faint scents of Corvo’s sandalwood soap and the last traces of the day’s cologne. He tucks his head beneath Corvo’s chin, and kisses the warm skin at the hollow of his throat. Corvo chuckles, and the vibrations quiver against his lips.

“Get some sleep,” Corvo murmurs. Chapped lips brush his temple. “We need you in peak form tomorrow if you’re going to help intimidate the Overseers.”

“I thought I was just supposed to stand at Emily’s side looking vaguely foreboding and occasionally making cryptic comments.”

“And you won’t be able to pull that off if you’re tired and cranky,” Corvo says, and he laughs, breathy and light and still so strange. Corvo answers him, then brings their hands up to place featherlight kisses on each of his fingers. “So, sleep.”

He lets his eyes slip shut, but he can’t make the smile leave his face.

_Five_.

There are people here, people who care about him, who want to see him happy and safe and will protect him from harm. He can talk to them, laugh with them, share his fears and doubts and dreams. They will keep his secrets, and ask nothing of him but that he continue to exist.

He is alive, and he is no longer alone.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway i would like to thank zi for listening to me cry ad nauseam about how much i love corvosider.


End file.
